I served in the palace during the reign of King Shlomo—some call him Solomon. I was just a junior attendant, barely old enough to carry a tray without trembling. I mostly kept quiet, stayed out of the way. But one morning, I saw something I’ll never forget.
It was early—before the court was crowded—when two women were brought before the king. Both were shaking. One clutched a baby to her chest. The other stood alone, weeping so hard I thought she might collapse.
I kept to the back wall, listening.
The first woman spoke. “My master, we live in the same house. We both gave birth. But her baby died in the night. She took my son and left me with hers.”
The second woman stepped forward, her voice hoarse. “She’s lying. The living child is mine.”
The room went still. No one spoke. How could anyone know the truth?
Then King Shlomo stood.
“Bring me a sword,” he said.
A murmur swept through the court. My stomach knotted.
A guard stepped forward with a blade. The king held it, then pointed toward the baby.
“If both of you claim him,” he said, “then we will divide him. Each of you will have half.”
The woman holding the child cried out, “No! Please, my king—give her the baby. Just don’t hurt him.”
The other woman crossed her arms. “If I can’t have him, neither of us should.”
Shlomo lowered the sword.
“Give the child to the first woman,” he said. “She is his true mother.”
No one moved. Then the guards stepped forward and handed the baby to her. She dropped to her knees, clutching her son, sobbing into his tiny shoulder.
Even after they left, the court stayed silent.
I didn’t understand it then. Why the king would ask for a sword. Why he would speak such a terrible thing out loud.
Later, one of the scribes leaned close to me and whispered, “He never meant to harm the child. He knew the truth would reveal itself in love.”
That was the day I learned what wisdom really is.
Not just knowing right from wrong. But knowing where to look for it. And trusting that mercy will speak louder than pride.
I served in the palace during the reign of King Shlomo—some call him Solomon. I was just a junior attendant, barely old enough to carry a tray without trembling. I mostly kept quiet, stayed out of the way. But one morning, I saw something I’ll never forget.
It was early—before the court was crowded—when two women were brought before the king. Both were shaking. One clutched a baby to her chest. The other stood alone, weeping so hard I thought she might collapse.
I kept to the back wall, listening.
The first woman spoke. “My master, we live in the same house. We both gave birth. But her baby died in the night. She took my son and left me with hers.”
The second woman stepped forward, her voice hoarse. “She’s lying. The living child is mine.”
The room went still. No one spoke. How could anyone know the truth?
Then King Shlomo stood.
“Bring me a sword,” he said.
A murmur swept through the court. My stomach knotted.
A guard stepped forward with a blade. The king held it, then pointed toward the baby.
“If both of you claim him,” he said, “then we will divide him. Each of you will have half.”
The woman holding the child cried out, “No! Please, my king—give her the baby. Just don’t hurt him.”
The other woman crossed her arms. “If I can’t have him, neither of us should.”
Shlomo lowered the sword.
“Give the child to the first woman,” he said. “She is his true mother.”
No one moved. Then the guards stepped forward and handed the baby to her. She dropped to her knees, clutching her son, sobbing into his tiny shoulder.
Even after they left, the court stayed silent.
I didn’t understand it then. Why the king would ask for a sword. Why he would speak such a terrible thing out loud.
Later, one of the scribes leaned close to me and whispered, “He never meant to harm the child. He knew the truth would reveal itself in love.”
That was the day I learned what wisdom really is.
Not just knowing right from wrong. But knowing where to look for it. And trusting that mercy will speak louder than pride.
